


White Light/White Heat

by true_bromantics



Category: Star Trek Into Darkness - Fandom, Star Trek Lawless AU
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/true_bromantics/pseuds/true_bromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When corrupt lawmakers re-institute the age old law of Prohibition, Jimk Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Pavel Chekov become infamous bootleggers. But when Jim falls in love with a Vulcan he's hired to help him run his legitimate business, the stakes become a lot higher in the battle against the corrupt District Attorney.</p><p>Prohibtion/Lawless AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Light/White Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Another year, another Star Trek Big Bang! A big BIG thanks to captainquirks who was my cheerleader on this, she really got me going when I was not motivated. Also a big thanks to my friend Melinda who withheld 30 Rock as a way to bribe me into finishing. Also, a big thanks to tre_k for her [amazing art ](http://tre-k.livejournal.com/609.html) and aaweth_edain for her [great fanmix.](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLv8lCPpg4QQCitcwRKcOHTejJZBZCCQMX)
> 
> Also, I feel like I need to thank Matt Bondurant for writing 'Wettest County in the World' because had he not written that book, 'Lawless' wouldn't have been made and I wouldn't have found the inspiration for this fic. So thanks Matt Bondurant (and Tom Hardy for inspiring my version of Jim Kirk) and of course thanks to Gene Roddenberry because without him all of this wouldn't exsist.

Jim always said he could never die.

His father had died the day he was born in the Great War with Romulus, and years later, when Jim was barely a boy; the plague of influenza took his mother and his older brother Sam. The flu struck Jim as well, ravaging his small body but he fought it off with a ferocity that was all Jim. He came out of it a half starved and worse for wear, clinging to life spitefully and fearlessly. And when Jim was sent off to be raised on Tarsus four with his Aunt and Uncle and the colony was struck with a terrible famine, his frail and thin body still raged on, even as Kodos began the mass executions. Jim ran, leaving behind the family he barely knew, hiding and scavenging all he could until Starfleet finally came and laid Kodos down like the damned dirty dog he was. As he was guided towards the shuttle, Jim saw the mass graves; men and women, strapping and strong ( _surely much stronger than he_ ) were lain there. As he looked down on their lifeless bodies, and then down at his own withered adolescence, Jim knew that death couldn’t touch him. Death had claimed the souls of men and women stronger, faster and healthier than him, but he had persevered. He had beat death.

Jim knew this to be true; he could never die.

~~

When Jim’s weak body had recovered from the famine, he was sent back to Earth to live with an old friend of his father’s. The man’s name was Chris Pike, and while he was a decent man who treated Jim well, by then Jim had learned to fear the weakness of safety. He had lived like a feral animal on Tarsus, and he refused to show a soft underbelly to men he knew were strong enough to lay him down. So, he ran and fought and learned how to be the man to strike, instead of the man to be stricken.

He soon fell in with an older boy, Leonard “Bones” McCoy, who drank and fought with a fury Jim admired, so nicknamed for his aspirations to become a country doctor just like his father. As he got older, he began to think of Bones as his older brother, always trying to look out for him but never quite figuring out how to.

Bones was loud and boisterous, while Jim was quieter, thoughtful. Bones’s anger roiled above the surface erupting in loud bursts always more bark than bite, whereas violence wafted around Jim in silence, always there, coiled beneath his surface like a panther hidden in the trees. Jim’s quiet manner suited him well whenever he got into a fight and the older boys would underestimate him; still scrawny, bony from famine and quiet, unassuming and clearly not a threat. But what Jim lacked in stature and presence, he made up for in viciousness. He would strike fast and catch them in the tender, vulnerable places: knees, ribs, throat, nose, elbows and wrists.

It didn’t take the boys of Federation County long to learn that underestimating Jim Kirk would most likely end in pain and possibly bloodshed.

As time wore on, Jim’s reputation grew ubiquitous and the older boys began to steer clear of Jim and Bones if they could help it. Even adults would look at them out of the corners of their eyes with palpable unease. The people’s view of him didn’t change even as he grew into a man, if anything it became galvanized. The men begrudgingly respected him but interacted with him warily, and the women cast their eyes down and turned away from him. But, Jim had the only filling station in town and the townspeople were forced to interact with him. Some came around to him, enjoying his calm demeanor and becoming regulars at the station, other only interacted with him if necessity called for it.

Jim ignored most of them, going about running the small filling station he’d inherited from his mother’s small estate. But when the law-makers decided to re-institute the long-dead policy of Prohibition, the Country was thrown into wild turmoil.

While the makers of spirits were affected so were the farmers who grew the hops and barley. In an instant their crop values plummeted into worthlessness overnight. Saloons were closed; large sections of the country were plunged into unemployment and poverty: towns, cities and states were toppled by the oncoming Depression.

Federation County, an already small working class community, felt the press of dark times upon them, but unlike other places, the people living in the county refused to be crushed beneath the weight of it.

Quickly word of mouth spread and Federation County quickly became known as the place with the best moonshine in the country.

Not many people were willing to take credit for the aggressive expansion of the moonshining operations, but if there were two people who quickly became synonymous with the illegal liquor trade, it was Jim and Bones.

And while they still maintained their notorious reputation, everyone was clamouring to do business with the boys and soon Jim and Bones needed to hire more hands to help them pump out the vast amounts of alcohol people craved.

Jim first hired Montgomery “Scotty” Scott, a local mechanic with big ideas, to build the stills for them. Scotty had an uncanny knack for taking any manner of junk, twisting it around a building a marvel of modern engineering. No one was quite sure how he did it, but whenever Scotty unveiled a newly built still to Jim or Bones, his genius showed clear through.

Then there was Chekov.

Jim hadn’t intended on hiring the kid, he really _really_ hadn’t, but when he’d come around the corner one day to see the young boy valiantly fighting off bullies twice his size, Jim had to help him out.

“Hey!” Jim shouted at the crowd of scuffed, scrawny boys surrounding a much smaller boy. “What do you shits think you’re doing?” The kids turned to him, eyes wide and rapidly scattered like roaches when they saw who was standing at the mouth of the narrow alley. Jim came forward and helped the small kid to his feet.

“Thank you,” the boy said to him, as he wiped a smear of blood from the side of his mouth.

“It’s nothin’. What’s your name son?” They boy eyed him worriedly.

“Pavel Chekov.”

“And how old are you?” Chekov’s gaze narrowed slightly at Jim.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I need to hire a hand to help out around my filling station and you look like you’re in need of a feeding,” Jim said blandly, grabbing a toothpick from his pocket and slipping it between his lips to chew on.

“I’m seventeen sir,” Chekov replied, Russian accent bending the word ‘seventeen’ into ‘ _sewenteen_ ’.  Jim was sure he was lying; the kid didn’t look older than twelve.

“Good enough for me. You want a job?”

“Aye sir.” Chekov nodded enthusiastically, and stuck his hand out towards Jim. “Pavel Andreovich Chekov.” Jim grinned wryly at him and shook his hand.

“Jim Kirk.”

When Jim hired Chekov, he didn’t expect the teen to become so interested in the illegal aspects of Jim’s chosen profession. He had fully intended to have Chekov help out at the filling station, lending Christine a hand on busy days, sweeping floors, menial work to keep him out of trouble.

But when Bones rambled off over the mountain when he was supposed to be going on a run with Jim, Jim had no choice; he needed a driver while he made the deliveries. Chekov was eager and enjoyed going on runs with Jim, but Jim didn’t like taking him. Jim could defend himself but Chekov looked like a stiff breeze would knock him off his feet. Still, Chekov would pester him and eventually Jim began bringing him along on all the runs regardless of Bones’ presence.

“Stay in the car. I mean it Chekov,” Jim said gruffly as they pulled up to the old church, where music could be heard thundering from within.

“No one is going to try and steal this piece of junk, Jim!” Chekov shouted indignantly as Jim climbed out of the old battered Model T truck.

“Just do as you’re told and stay in the truck, Pavel.” Jim went around to the flatbed, hauled out a crate of jars, and set off towards the old chapel.

The music grew louder as Jim grew closer. He nudged the door open with his hip, it hit a thunderous crescendo as the party within raged on. When Jim’s eye caught Gaila, the sweet Orion girl he was here to deliver to, she bounded over to him, red curls whipping about her face.

“Hey Jimmy.” She grabbed the crate from him, set it down on a nearby pew and pulled a wad of bills from her dress pocket.

“Hey Gaila, sorry to hear about Olson.” Jim nodded towards a casket propped up in a corner where everyone had congregated and was dancing and singing up a storm. Gaila shrugged one shoulder as she passed him the money.

“Such is life, Jimmy. I’ll send his mama your regards, though. You gonna stay for a drink?” She said as she smiled at him fondly.

“Sorry, I can’t, the car’s running.” Jim tossed her a curt nod and headed back out into the night. As Jim got closer to the truck, he noticed several things at once; Chekov was standing in front of the car, hands held up defensively, and two large men had him boxed in.

“Hand over the money boy!” one of them snarled, a small knife held in his outstretched hand.

“I do not have any money! I’m just the driver!” Chekov insisted voice pitched high with fear.

“Hey, you two, back up-you don’t wanna do this,” Jim barked and the two men turned to regard him.

“Oh, so you’re the money man, eh? Hand it over or I’ll cut some daylight into your boy here.” One of the thugs sneered at Jim, motioning to Chekov with a rusty switch-blade.

“Look cupcake, every minute of every day the course of our lives is changing, and you don’t even see it.” Jim slipped his hand into his pocket and slid on the heavy set of brass knuckles he kept on him at all times.

“What the fuck are you on about?” The man with the knife turned fully toward him now.

“What I mean to say is-“ Jim swung at him violently then, catching him in the mouth. He felt the crack of teeth breaking loose and the warm, wet spray of blood across his hand. The man went down and the knife skittered under the truck in the scuffle. The other man paled and quickly fled as Jim stepped over his felled comrade.

“Are you alright to drive?” Jim asked as he wiped blood from the brass knuckles. Chekov swallowed and moved towards the driver’s side door.

“Yes,” Chekov replied through gritted teeth.

If, on the next delivery, Chekov stayed in the car, it was only because his legs hurt and he didn’t feel like standing, and not because he was afraid.

Because he _wasn’t afraid_.

~~

When Jim had finally made his way over to the filling station to check on business, a flustered and uncharacteristically bashful Christine greeted him.

“There’s a tall drink of water over at the bar asking for you, Jim,” she said, hushed and gestured over her shoulder. Jim quirked a brow and looked into the front room, towards the bar.

There stood a tall, neat, dark haired man dressed sharply in a crisp white shirt, dark slacks and a waistcoat. Jim frowned, the man was a little too well dressed to be a local. When the man shifted and turned slightly, Jim felt his eyebrows climb higher as he caught sight of a pointed ear.

A Vulcan, then.

“I think he’s looking for a job or something,” Christine chattered quietly, her cheeks turning pink as the man caught her gaze briefly, she looked sheepishly back at Jim.

“Thanks Christine.” Jim nodded and walked out to meet the Vulcan standing at his bar. As he neared him, the man turned fully toward him and Jim took in his sharp features; upswept eyebrows, high cheekbones and hawk-like dark brown eyes.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” he asked Jim.

“I am. Jim Kirk. And you are?” Jim nodded in greeting, remembering from his sparse schooling that Vulcan’s didn’t shake hands.

“You may call me Spock. I noticed the ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window and thought that I might apply for the open position.” Jim looked quizzically at him, giving him another quick scan up and down. Tall and broad, with wide shoulders, while he was dressed like a scholar he certainly would be helpful tossing any rowdy drunks out on their ass.

“Forgive me for asking, but uh,” Jim rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly “What’s a guy like you want here?” Spock stiffened slightly.

“I am new to the area and it has been suggested that I become acquainted with the local culture,” he replied shortly. Jim grinned ruefully at him.

“Well, there’s plenty of local colour around here Mr. Spock.”

~~

At first, Spock stuck out in sharp relief to the regular cast of characters milling about the station. He was quiet and curt, the very picture of Vulcan sensibilities. Bones took a quick dislike to him, often mistaking his concise way of speaking for blunt rudeness, which was rich coming from Bones who was a picture of blunt rudeness. Jim on the other hand enjoyed the curt way in which Spock spoke, so rarely did people say what they meant and it was a nice change of pace for someone to speak so directly.

And while Spock looked more suited to lighter work in his primly cut suits, one afternoon early in the fall when the weather was taking a cold turn, Jim found Spock out back with the axe, chopping wood for the furnace. Jim had been momentarily frozen in place, struck by the sight of Spock, waistcoat removed and slung over a tree branch, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, tension coiled in his broad, strong shoulders and he brought the axe down with a ‘crack’ as the log split in two. Jim swallowed thickly as Spock wiped the sweat from his brow and wrenched the axe from where it was sunk deep into the chopping block. As he set another piece of wood atop the block, he caught Jim’s eye and nodded in greeting, Jim swallowed harshly again at being caught staring, and turned and headed back inside the station.

~~

As the weeks passed, everyone at the station, except for Bones, seemed to warm to Spock; Christine seemed quite taken with him and was often seen conversing with him, a blush high on her cheeks as she was trying to learn as much about Vulcan culture as Spock would share, which wasn’t much. Chekov, upon hearing that the son of a diplomat Spock had travelled to many places and was fluent in Russian, took to chattering animatedly in it with him.

One night, Jim returned from a run to find Spock and Chekov sitting at a table in the darkened station, playing chess on an old worn board. Jim leaned against the table; hip cocked as he sipped from a half empty jar of moonshine and watched as Spock easily overtook Chekov in their game.

“You know, for a boy genius, you’re crap at chess,” Jim said bluntly to Chekov as Spock took his queen. Chekov scowled back at him.

“You think you can do better?” he muttered darkly as he tried to salvage the scant few pieces he still had left on the board.

“Of course I can,” Jim replied, grin pulling at his lips as he took off his hat and hung it on an empty peg on the wall behind him.

“You play chess?” Spock asked, as he paused, considering his next move. “Checkmate, Pavel.” Chekov cursed heavily in Russian, and Spock’s brow ticked up slightly in what Jim thought was bemusement.

“I’m tired of losing, it’s your turn to get beaten by him now, and I’m going home,” Chekov said sullenly as he got up and headed for the door. “Goodnight.” Spock and Jim bid him goodnight and quickly descended into their game.

Unlike playing with Chekov, who spoke frequently and animatedly, Spock noted he and Jim played in relative silence. It wasn’t a tense or awkward silence; it was a comfortable and warm. A silence built on camaraderie and the pleasure of enjoying each other’s company.

It was… nice.

Even if it meant that he lost to Jim… _three times in a row_.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmured quietly. “You are quite good at this.” Jim smiled and preened slightly.

“Thank you, Spock. It’s been a long time since I played with someone so evenly matched.”

“And I as well. While I would like to have another match with you, I regret that I must head home now. The hour is late and I am expected. Perhaps you would like to play again another night?” Spock asked, rising from his seat and packing away the chessboard.

“Of course, anytime, Spock.” Jim drained the last of the moonshine from the jar, and hefted himself up, casting his eyes towards to clock. ‘ _Wow, it is late,_ ’ he thought. Spock retrieved his coat from the coat hook next to Jim’s hat and slipped it on, the collar turned up as defence against the cool autumn air.

“Excellent. Goodnight, Jim.”

“Goodnight, Spock.” Jim nodded and smiled, and Spock left the station, chessboard tucked neatly under one arm.

After that it became a nightly routine for Jim to stop by the station after a run to find Spock waiting with the chess board, ready for a game or two. Sometimes they talked amiably and Jim learned titbits about Spock’s family, his heritage, his upbringing, and in turned Jim shared things about himself; often things he hadn’t voiced to anyone before. Or sometimes, they simply let the silence settle over them like old friends, so comfortable in each other’s presence there was no need for words.

Jim began to grow settled in the new routine that he’d created, the ebb and flow around the station eased and everything seemed to calm as the winter crept closer.

Of course, it was only natural that something came along to disturb the peace finally settling over Jim’s life.

~~

Jim had been loading crates of jars into the shed when Chekov came wheeling around the corner frantically.

“Jim! Jim! The Sheriff and his men are here,” he said, gesturing frantically towards the front of the filling station. Jim grunted his reply as he hefted the last crate out of the truck bed and stacked it among the others. Jim looked back at Chekov blankly.

“So? Just give him the usual and send him on his way.” Jim pulled the long chain that held the key to the shed off his neck and locked up the stash for the night. Chekov still looked nervous.

“Jim, there are other men than just the Sheriff’s boys. They look like some men from the FBI.” Chekov swallowed thickly. Jim sighed heavily.

“Alright. Chekov, go on inside now. Bones I’m gonna need your help tonight around eleven, I’ve got some business with some out of towners I’ve never worked with before and I might need some back up.” Jim locked up the shed and put the chain holding the key back around his neck. Jim motioned to Chekov was still standing there, looking left out. “Go on now, get.” Jim jerked his hand in the direction of the back door to the filling station.

“Sure Jim.” Bones nodded as Jim grabbed his revolver from the glove box of the truck and stuffed it into the back of his trousers, pulling his sweater down to cover it. Bones shook his head knowingly and they headed around to the front of station to greet the Sheriff.

“Is there a problem Sheriff?” Jim asked, eying up Sheriff James Komack and his deputy Richard Barret.

“No trouble Jim, it’s just that the Commonwealth Attorney, Alexander Marcus and Special Deputy John Harrison would like to talk with you about the little operation you’ve got going on here.” The Sheriff motioned towards a slick looking town car parked behind the battered, mud splattered jalopy the Sheriff drove. Beside the town car stood a tall, well-dressed man with dark eyes and hair slicked back with copious amounts of hair grease.

“Little operation? I’ve got no idea what you mean Sheriff-” Jim smarmed.

“Cut the cute and innocent routine Mr.Kirk, it doesn’t suit you,” the man - Deputy Harrison - cut in, haughty British accent doing nothing to quell the air of self-importance surrounding him. “We know all about your moonshining and bootlegging, you run one of the most successful operations in the county. We are not here to make your life difficult, Mr. Kirk, we are simply here to inform you that if you wish to continue your operation unhindered you’ll pay the Common Wealth Attorney, Mr. Alexander Marcus here, ten per-cent of your gains on the illegal trade of liquor and twenty dollars for every run you make from here on out.” Deputy Harrison seemed unruffled by the venomous look Jim levelled at him. They locked stares, and Jim was momentarily thrown. It had been a long time since someone had so boldly met his challenge. Harrison broke his gaze first, his eyes flickered to something over his shoulder and Jim grit his teeth.

Harrison was no longer paying attention to Jim, but was staring intently over at Spock, was sat quietly whittling something one the porch. ‘Shit’ Jim thought, ‘How long has Spock been sitting there?’ and he looked between Spock who hands had stilled and the intense look of interest Harrison was giving the Vulcan.

“What is this shit James?” Jim asked; gaze still locked and never moving from Harrison.

“Look Jim, we don’t want no trouble. The whole county’s getting on board with this, it’ll make things easier for everyone.” Komack reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two dollars, holding it out for Jim. “Now, why don’t you get them a jar of your finest apple brandy?” The man’s voice shook slightly as Jim’s gaze slid to him, spine and will liquefied by Jim’s penchant for bloodshed. Jim’s reputation had grown so large that even the Sheriff felt uneasy under his stare. The Sheriff flinched briefly when Jim grabbed the money from him. Instead of walking back to the shed and grabbing a jar, Jim stalked towards the town car, brushing past Harrison and tapping on the tinted window. Jerkily, Marcus rolled down the window, and asked Jim steadily “Can I help you, son?”

“You send that British fucker ‘round here again you’ll personally have to pull a cleaver out of his fucking skull.” Jim growled as he reached in the car and shoved the two dollar bills roughly into Marcus’s breast pocket. As Jim pulled back and turned towards the house the Sheriff said, alarmed,

“Don’t do this, Jim! You’ll regret this!”

Jim ignored him and motioned at Spock, “Go inside Spock.” Spock’s even gaze flicked from Jim to the law men, then back as he stood.

“Jim,” Bones hissed following him as he turned to follow Spock into the station, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“Mr. Kirk.” Jim stopped abruptly when Harrison spoke and turned to face him. “You think that threatening me will get you anywhere? You think I’m scared of you, country boy?” Harrison sneered, as he got right in Jim’s personal space. The air was taught with tension and no one seemed to breathe for a sweltering moment, the anticipation of violence thick in the air, choking them all. Jim noticed the Sheriff’s grip tighten on his gun and his jaw tightened impossibly. Jim held Harrison’s gaze and for a brief, terrifying second Jim thought about ending his life in a fit of savagery, but Spock was still standing in the doorway watching the tense interaction, perfect and untainted by brutality, and Jim just grunted and followed Spock inside the station.

 

~~

Spock hadn’t asked about the interaction, and Jim was grateful for that. He knew Spock was smart enough to suss out that Jim was more than just the owner of the Enterprise Filling Station, and he was glad that he didn’t seem troubled enough by Jim’s criminal behavior to leave. But he still felt a nagging sense of guilt tugging at him. Everyone around Jim was a criminal of some sort, every stray he had picked up along the way seemed to drift into the darker side of Jim’s world. He was trying desperately to keep Chekov out of it, but the boy was too insistent, Jim knew one day he was going to crack and he _ached_.

Bones stewed about the meeting all day as well, shouting and cursing at Jim.

“You couldn’t just take the damned deal could you? You had to go piss off the goddamned _Commonwealth Attorney_! All because of your fucking pride!” Bones snarled, and stormed out of the station. Jim glared after him, and felt a sense of inevitability settle over him.

Bones wasn’t likely to come back. Jim would have to deal with the out of towners alone.

He hoped that he was wrong, desperately. He looked up to Bones like an older brother, and even though Bones was a cantankerous curmudgeon, he was reliable. Mostly. When he wasn’t roaring drunk.

Jim just hoped that Bones would show up later to help him out.

~~

Jim’s eyes flicked from the lazy poker game and his shitty hand to the clock on the wall. Already quarter after.

“Christine?” Jim asked as he jerked his head towards the clock, indicating the late hour. She shook her head at him.

“He’s not comin’, Jim.” Jim sighed and threw down his cards.

“Aright, start closing up -” Jim was cut off by a sudden sharp clatter and a loud shot from the front room of the station.  He shot up and stalked into the next room, Christine closely trailing him. The scene that greeted him as he entered made his guts swell and churn with rage. One of the two men parked at the bar was leaning over it towards Spock, swearing and swiping at him. The more of the scene Jim took in, the sharper the anger got, coagulating in him, thick and black.

A few feet from the bar lay a small knife, stained green with blood from a cut made to Spock’s cheek. Spock stood back from the bar, looking as impassive and unrumpled as ever, save for the blood sliding its way slowly down his cheek, looking unimpressed by the man attempting to climb over the bar and harm him.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Jim asked evenly, looking between the two men sitting at his bar.

 “I paid for another jar and this goddamn motherfucker wouldn’t give it to me -“ The man gestured wildly at Spock, waving a hand that appeared to be rapidly swelling and turning a hideous shade of red at him. “And when I demanded my hard earned money back he broke my damned hand!”

Jim’s eyes flicked from the man, to the knife and back to Spock, who shook his head minutely at the question in Jim’s eyes.

“Get out,” Jim growled with finality. He really could have used Bones’ help with this shit.

The second man at the bar, with vaguely Vulcan features and tattoos covering his face stood up abruptly. “Not until we get what we paid for. We were gonna buy near twenty gallons of liquor - least the man can do is give Gary the damned jar he paid for -“

“He did not pay for another jar -“ Spock hissed, voice low and the man threw the empty glass sitting at his elbow at Spock.

“Silence, half breed,” the man roared.  As the glass shattered against the wall behind him, Jim was thundering forward before anyone could make another move and he was on the man, mauling him like a tiger.

 ‘Shit,’ he thought to himself. ‘There was never going to be a deal with no out-of-towners. This was a set-up. Goddamit Bones.’

 

“Shit, Nero -“ Gary shouted, as he went scrabbling for the knife as it skittered across the floor in the scuffle.  Before Gary could scoop up the knife, Christine picked it up and brandished it at the man.

“Nice try, asshole,” she spat at him as he cowered.

Jim grunted and blood spilled over his knuckles as skin split and bones broke under his brutal blows from his fists as the brass knuckles he wore connected with Nero’s face with a sickening crack. His nose snapped into an unnatural position and Jim swung again, this time aiming for his mouth; Nero would be spitting up his own teeth for day if Jim had his way. With his mouth and nose bloodied, Nero staggered and collapsed spitting blood and gurgling horribly from Jim’s unrelenting assault.  Gary seized the opportunity and attempted to tackle Jim, grappling with him from behind.  Rage swelling, Jim savagely elbowed Gary in the gut, knocking the wind out of the other man.

 Jim looked down at Gary and Nero, both gasping and writhing on the floor in agony and he felt pity and anger; some men in this world just wouldn’t stop until they got a beating. Why were some men so intent on getting a beating? Jim would never understand these men.

Overwhelmed by disgust, Jim grabbed Nero’s ankles, dragged him out the front of the filling station, and left him, bleeding and gurgling, on the ground in the newly fallen snow; then he returned inside and proceeded to do the same thing with Gary. Satisfied that the men had learned their lessons, Jim left them to bleed, or die in the snow, and returned inside, wiping his bloodied brass knuckles off and slipping them back into his pocket.

As he entered the filling station, his eyes fell on Spock, who was having the shallow cut on his cheek tended to by Christine. Jim was equal measures mesmerized and horrified by the green blood flowing in small rivulets down Spock’s face and neck, welling in the dips of his tendons and clavicle. Jim had never been one to shy away from bloodshed, but seeing the vivid green staining the starched white of Spock’s shirt made Jim shy away. Spock had never seemed more alien to him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

 

“Are you alright?” Jim grunted, averting his eyes as Christine swiped the last bit of blood from Spock’s neck.

“I am fine, Jim. Are you alright?” Spock asked, re-buttoning his shirt. Jim nodded and pulled out his money clip.

“Here Christine, for your trouble.” He passed the woman a five dollar bill and nodded at her. “Go on home.”

“Thank you, Jim.” She took the money and left without a fuss.

“Are you gonna be alright to get home? Or would you like to stay the night - we have an extra room upstairs,” Jim asked Spock, once more comfortable with laying eyes upon him.

“I will be fine, Jim. The drive will help clear my thoughts. Goodnight.” Jim nodded again and grunted as a sign of parting. Jim waited for the sound of Spock’s boot heels to change from the dull ‘thunk thunk’ of hitting floorboards to the soft ‘crunch, crunch’ of treading on newly fallen snow before he picked up a dirty bar rag to towel some of the drying spatter off his face and hands. He caught a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror - he looked a vivid portrait of violence. He grimace at the grim picture of himself he saw there.

“Can’t be helped,” he grumbled quietly to himself as he wiped the blood from his face and hands. He hoped he could get the bloodstains off his cuffs or he would have to buy a new shirt. Jim tossed the soiled rag into the bin of its dirty brethren and, turning out the light, he left the filling station.

The second he stepped out into the cold, he knew something wasn’t right. Where two men should lie, bleeding and wheezing, there were only two smeared, bloody patches of ground. Before he could do much more than blink, Jim was ambushed. Legs kicked out from under him and unable to steady himself from the sneak attack, he went tumbling forward onto his knees. A hand ripped his hair tightly and savagely pulled his head back as an arm wrapped around him and a forearm pressed against his windpipe. Jim struggled against the person holding him in place, clawing and scratching in a desperate bid for freedom. Nero oozed out of the shadows like a rodent being swallowed by a snake.  His face, cracked and bloody, was made only more grotesque by the sick, toothless grin stretched across it. Jim’s gaze flicked away from his face as the dim lamp light glinted off something in Nero’s hand.

A blade.

The forearm pressed harder and shifted up, raising his chin up and the hand in his hair jerked harshly and tilted his head back, baring his pale, white vulnerability. Jim began to struggle harder. In a quicksilver movement, Jim felt something rake across the tender flesh of his throat. It almost felt like nothing at all, just a small swipe of air across his neck, from ear to ear but, as cold seeped into his body and warmth cascaded down his front, he knew this--this was something. The arms holding him were gone now, as if in a puff of smoke, and as numbness surrounded him, he barely felt the harsh impact of the earth as he fell upon it - or as it fell upon him. Jim wasn’t so sure anymore.

As he lay there, the cool sweet stench of death drifted around him, thick and metallic. But death’s sharp claws would not have him. Death couldn’t take him when he was a mere child, gaunt and sick from famine ravaging Tarsus, and death could not claim him now; a full-fledged man.

Weakly, he pulled his leaden arms up and clutched at the slick tatters of his throat with fumbling fingers and tried to hold the bloody wound closed in an attempt to slow the unending flow of blood.

He would not die.

As the world swam further and further from his focus, Jim desperately tried to reach out to it; he would not be another dying star winking out and be consumed by the darkness of the universe.

He would not die.

~~

The world was a wash of white. Not the striking, bright streaks of snow across the dull Iowa cornfields, but a softer white.

‘The kind of white you would find in Heaven,’ Jim thought.

Except, Heaven was supposed to be all about beauty and light and angels singing a hallelujah chorus, not weakness and pain and feeling like he’d swallowed a ton of gravel.

There was some low murmuring of voices around him, and Jim grunted hoarsely as he blinked his eyes open.

“He’s a tough son of a bitch, he’ll make it. “

‘ _Shit, I am definitely not in heaven._ ’ He thought as he looked around the starkly furnished hospital room. Confusion clouded over him for a minute ‘ _How did I get here?’_

 _“_ The nurses said he walked here. _He walked here_ with his throat cut, head damn near off. He’ll be fine, kid.””

Bones was in the corner pacing, looking ten years older and worse for wear. A hot flare of anger clenched in Jim’s gut, and he turned his gaze away, not wanting to look at him anymore.

Chekov was on him in an instant.

“Jim! Are you alright? What happened?” he asked, voice pitched high with worry and thicker with a Russian lilt than Jim could ever remember hearing it.

“Goddamn it Chekov, what part of ‘had his damned throat cut and can’t talk’ do you not understand?!” Bones shouted angrily, gesturing wildly at Jim’s neck, swathed tightly in thick bandages. Chekov flinched and looked away, hurt.

“Bones,” Jim croaked quietly, straining with effort. Both Bones and Chekov stopped, and turned to Jim. This time Jim didn’t flinch away from looking straight at Bones. Anger, shame and guttural disappointment threatened to choke him but he pressed on. “You shoulda been there.”

 

There it was.

 

Jim wasn’t a man to leave words, hurtful or not, left unspoken. So there it was sitting thick and heavy in the air like the damnation it was.

 

You shoulda been there.

The silence crushed down around them, pressing upon them and making the air thick with tension. No one said anything but Bones looked away and swallowed hard around the congealing guilt. The thought of having to look Jim or Chekov in the eye and see the smear of their deep disappointment was too overwhelming, too terrifying, _too devastating_ , he simply turned and walked out of the room and out of the hospital and into the blazing heat of the afternoon.

~~

While Jim recovered he received few visitors.  Chekov came around frequently, keeping him appraised of the goings-on around the station. Bones didn’t come around again, ignoring the heavy weight of betrayal and tending the stills and going on runs alone. Christine brought him flowers, determined to shake the dour mood surrounding Jim. She was convinced it brightened the room with positive energy. Jim was not convinced.

The visitor he had least expected to show up at the end of his hospital bed was Spock…Who was currently standing at the end of his hospital bed.

“Spock…“ Jim croaked.

“Jim, your physician has advised you do not strain your throat by speaking.” Spock said quietly, gaze not straying to the thick swath of bandages.

“I bet you’re glad they’ve finally found a way to shut me up.” Jim grinned ruefully as Spock’s dark brow ticked up.

“I would have preferred less…savage methods.” Jim’s eyes widened and he hacked out painful a laugh.

“So, all it took was a near death experience, and you crack a joke?” Jim smiled, but it melted away when Spock tensed and looked away. “Spock-“

“Jim-” Spock stopped and looked back at him; his expression shuttered again, only a slight crease between his upswept brows denoting his worry. Jim wasn’t having any of it. 

“C’mere” He motioned towards the end of his cot. For a moment Spock looked like he wasn’t going to move, but hesitantly he stepped around to the side of the bed and sat by Jim’s knees.

“I think it’d be safer for you to stay at the station for a while,” Jim said voice quiet and rough. “We’ve got the extra room, and I just think that you’ll be safer there with me ‘n Bones - at least until this whole nonsense with Harrison blows over.” Spock was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands folded in his lap.

“Jim, you know I cannot stay at the station with you. My father would not approve,” he said softly. It hung in there for what felt like an eternity to Jim. He didn’t know what he could say to that. He didn’t want to push Spock from his family, but Jim felt the fear deep in his gut that if he didn’t protect him, it would be Spock’s blood pooling in the snow.

“Spock,” Jim sat up a little and reached for Spock’s hand and cradled it in his. “It’s not safe. I need to protect you.” He felt it, do deep and fierce in his gut, Jim struggled not to squeeze Spock’s hand tighter. He would defend him just as readily as he would Bones, Chekov, Scotty or Christine. He would lay any man down who threatened his safety and he needed Spock to _feel_ that - to _know_ that.

Spock’s head turned and he looked at him then. There was still a faint green slash across his cheek from the brawl at the station, and Jim could remember perfectly the long paleness of Spock’s throat marred with his own blood. The idea of ever again seeing that blood out of body was terrifying. Jim felt a slight squeeze of his hand before Spock pulled his hand away.

“All right. I will stay in the spare room at the station until it is safe for me to return home.”

“Good.” Jim swallowed thickly and smiled, closing his eyes and listening to the steady rhythm of Spock’s breathing.

~~

Spock knew his father would not be pleased that he was leaving his home, never mind the fact he was going to stay with known criminals. Spock did not look forward to seeing the face of his father when he told him.

So perhaps it was a stroke of luck that when he returned to the small home he shared with his parents, it appeared only his mother was home. She sat at the kitchen table knitting what appeared to be a sweater, and humming to herself softly.

Spock felt a deep swell of affection for her.

Growing up on Vulcan, with a race who prided themselves on their vast knowledge and understanding of the universe, Vulcans showed little understanding or tolerance towards races they deemed inferior. It was a crushingly isolated and insular world.

Being the child of both a Vulcan and a Human made Spock the object of disdain amongst his classmates and the elitists among the population, of which there were many. While Spock had grown withdrawn and near silent in the face of it, his mother grew impossibly louder in his defense.

She was the one who had convinced his father to take the open position of Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, and come here. She had maintained it would offer an opportunity for growth and that Spock would finally be able to be proud of his heritage; of every facet of it.

But, upon their arrival Spock had felt no pride. He had felt for the first time in his life, completely and utterly alien. At first people had gawked, Vulcan’s being so rare in these parts of the planet. But when Spock’s pointed ears and upswept brows ceased to amuse them, they began to ignore him. It had felt almost worse than being back on Vulcan.

It was his mother who had suggested he get a job at a local business to help immerse himself more fully in Earth culture and customs. His father had not approved, but his mother had insisted that it would help Spock adjust to life on Earth. He had been skeptical at first.

Then he had gotten the job at the filling station with Jim, and he had begun to believe her.

She looked up at him then and smiled. “Hello Spock.”

“Hello mother.”

“You’re home early, aren’t you working at the station today?”

“I am indeed, but there has been an unfortunate…incident. My continued presence is needed at the station.” Spock said quietly, his shoulders tight with tension.

“Is everything alright Spock?” His mother paused and set down her knitting then, standing and holding his face gently in her small hands.

“Yes mother but, but due to a medical emergency Jim would like me to stay to further help run the filling station while he is unable.” His mother looked at him then, gaze tight with worry but something soft lurked beneath.

“Medical emergency? Is Jim all right?” She asked, brows creasing with worry.

“He-he will be fine.” Spock tried hard to keep his voice even, and betray none of the emotions roaring in his head or roiling in his gut, but he faltered and stuttered. His mother’s eyes widened then, and she wrapped her arms around him in a desperate hug.

“Oh, Spock.” They stood there in silence for a few minutes as Spock tried to compose himself.

As a child on Vulcan Spock had been embarrassed by his mother’s human ways, it made him the object of ridicule and teasing. The physical affection had been the most taxing. She tried to keep the physical contact minimal, knowing how overwhelming human emotions could be to a touch telepath, but even a hand on his shoulder had been overwhelming to him. But as he grew, his resistance softened, and Spock knew that withholding such things from his mother wouldn’t help his social standing. He other Vulcans would still look at him the same way, even if his mother never hugged him again of put a hand on his shoulder, or cupped his face in her hands. So, Spock slowly allowed himself to feel comforted by her touch.

“Your father won’t be happy about this.” She sighed softly and tightened her hold on Spock minutely.

“No he will not.” Spock murmured softly, returning the hug lightly.

“But, you are a man now and this is your decision to make. I trust you will make the right one.” She smiled up at Spock and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, sit with me a spell before you leave home and leave your poor old mother to sit alone in an empty nest all day and knit.” She sat down gingerly at the table and picked up her knitting again and Spock sat with her, talking for a while before Spock packed his belongings in an old suitcase and left for the filling station.   

 

~~

Chekov knew that this was a _bad_ idea. He knew that if he went through with his plan Jim would be angry, but he felt like he had no choice. He was spinning his wheels and getting nowhere, Jim and Bones too intent on keeping him out of the business. So in order to finally prove to them he was just as capable in this business as they were, he was going to need to do something big…

Like sell off Jim’s entire supply of moonshine to Hikaru Sulu, a big time gangster over the state line. Scotty had told him one day, while they were watching one of Jim’s stills and passing a jar back and forth, that he had contacts in Sulu’s gang; contacts who had said he was looking to buy good moonshine for as high as five dollars a jar. That was twice what Jim was getting selling in town. His plan was brilliant: sell the liquor, rake in the money, and prove to Jim and Bones once and for all he belonged in this business.

The only snag in his plan was having to steal the liquor, and to steal the liquor he would have to steal the key to the storage shed, which was currently sitting on the small nightstand by Jim’s hospital bed.

As he stood outside the quiet room, Chekov tried to steady his pulse. If Jim caught him, it was curtains for him. But if he _succeeded_ …

Chekov steeled his resolve and entered the room where Jim was dozing. As he crept closer to the table and the key, he heard his heartbeat in his ears. When he finally wrapped his fingers around the key, he felt a jolt of sharp relief.

It was quickly followed by piercing dread when Jim opened his eyes and looked straight at him.

“Chekov. What are you doing here?” Jim asked levelly. Chekov felt himself start to sweat along his brow and his pulse quickened, and for a second he was sure Jim could hear his heart beating.

“I’m just checking up on you Jim,” he lied, trying hard to keep the tremors out of his voice. For a moment he was sure Jim knew he had lied, he was sure he felt the weakness of it the same way he looked at someone and picked out where a weak spot was.

“I’m alright, I’ll be back home tomorrow. You go on back to the station and make sure Spock’s getting settled okay and keep an eye on the station.”

Chekov felt nearly buried underneath the wave of relief.

“Alright. See you then Jim.” He nodded toward the older man and tried his best not to run from the room.

When he finally climbed into his car, he hollered with relief and started the engine. His plan had worked, he had gotten the key. With Bones still up the mountain nearly drinking himself to death and sick with guilt and Jim still in the hospital, he and Scotty would be able to make it over the state line and back before Jim returned home.  Everything was going according to plan for once.

~~

 When Chekov pulled up to the station, he knew what he was about to do was inadvisable at best, and a damned bad idea at the worst.

“Mr.Scott!” He called into the station as he dug the stolen key from his pocket and made his way to the liquor storage shed. “I need some help out here!”  Quickly he heard Scotty thunder down the steps and wheel around the corner.

“Aye lad, what are you doin?” He asked; wiping his blackened, grease coated hands on his equally greasy overalls.

“I’m tired of waiting for permission from Jim and Leonard.  Now come here and help me load these jars!”

“Cripes, are you crazy?! Jim will throttle you-“

“Nyet! When I sell all these jars to Hikaru Sulu for five dollars a jar, Jim will have no choice but to accept my business genius! First we sell these jars, and then we convince Jim to fund our stills Mr.Scott! You see?! It will be perfect. Now help me with these jars, then you call Archer then you tell him we are bringing a big load-two hundred gallons at least!”

“You are some kind of crazy lad.” Scotty muttered under his breath as he grabbed a crate of jars and started loading up the flatbed of the old Model T.

“Look Mr.Scott, I need a partner in this-I’ll need back up.” Scotty looked at him sceptically.

“You and me?”

“Da.” Chekov replied stony faced, holding out his hand for Scotty to shake.

“Well, shit.” Scotty set the crate down in the back of the truck and shook the proffered hand. “Partners.”

~~

As Chekov and Scotty tore down the winding dirt road that would eventually lead them to the state line and then the city where they would meet with a notorious gangster, Scotty started to have second thoughts and looked a little green around the gills.

“Relax Scotty, you look like you are going to throw up on me.”

“Well excuse me if I’m a little nervous from stealing liquor from notorious criminals to sell to an arguably more notorious criminal!” Scotty gesticulated wildly, his voice pitching high. Chekov snorted a laugh and looked puzzled when the truck began to make sputtering, choking sounds.

“What is that? That does not sound good.” Chekov looks down at his feet and pushed down on the gas pedal. Nothing. “Mr.Scott, did you remember to put gas in the truck?” Scotty looked out the window then down at his feet pointedly. “ _Mr.Scott?!”_

 _“_ No! Alright?! No! I forgot! I’m sorry I was a little preoccupied stealing-“

“Chyort voz'mi!”

“Wait-wait wait wait! I have an idea!” Scotty wrenched the door open, threw himself out of the truck and quickly grabbed a jar from the flatbed. When he had finally twisted off the metal lid, he reached back in the truck, flipping up the bench seat and scrabbling for the gas cap.

“What are you doing?!” Chekov shouted as he tumbled from the truck when the bench seat was lifted.

“Moonshine is basically just ethanol - the main ingredient in gasoline - we can use the ‘shine in place of regular gas…” Scotty dumped the entire jar into the tank. “I think.”

They both climbed back into the truck, and Chekov turned the key in the ignition as they held their breaths.

The engine sputtered slightly then roared to life.

“Yo mayo!” Chekov hollered and Scotty hooted loudly and pounded the dashboard in delight as the wheels began to turn and they were off, once again tearing down the dirt road.

~~

By the time they finally pulled onto the street where Scotty’s main contact Archer had said to meet, it was dark and night had settled around them. Underneath a dim street light a moustachioed, well-dressed man leaned against a light post. As the two boys got out of the truck and walked over to him, he nodded in acknowledgement and approached them.

“Hello Scotty, it’s been a while.” Archer said as he grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it with a flick of a silver lighter

“Aye.” Scotty nodded, and swallowed nervously.

“So, whatcha got?” He motioned towards the truck.

“We’ve got a hundred gallons of the finest moonshine from Riverside, a hundred gallons of Romulan Ale and a hundred of Klingon Stout,” Chekov piped in, puffing his chest out a little.

“The finest from Riverside, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s not until Chekov heard the cocking of a gun near his ear did he realize they’d been surrounded by Archer’s men. Panic rocketed through him as he realized the whole deal was a set up and he reached for the gun he’d hastily shoved into the back of his trousers. The gun at his ear pressed hard against his temple and he stops and retracted his hand as one of Archer’s men grabs the gun from him.

“Really? You brought this little pea shooter?” Archer laughed when the gun is tossed to him. It was just a small revolver; the only gun Chekov had owned, and he felt a sudden unexpected wash of shame. He hadn’t come prepared at all.

“You are one dumb sack of shit, Scott.” Archer turned to Scotty and scowled. “One dumb sack of shit. Now both of you walk!”

“Can’t we work something out -“ Chekov sputtered, barrel still digging into his scalp.

“I said walk!” Archer snarled and had his men lead them over to a steep ditch near a riverbank. As Chekov and Scotty turned and looked at Archer and his men, both were struck by the sudden frightening knowledge of what it was like to face a firing squad.

“You think you can make a fool out of me? You blow up my stills and kill my prize beagle in the process and _you_ think that you can still sell liquor in _my_ town?!” Archer bellows at them, frothing with rage. Scotty sputters at him wildly.

“It was a mistake! Those calculations were correct, I don’t know what went wrong -“

“Shut up! Blow ‘em away boy s-“

“What the hell is going on here Archer?” A cold voice rang out over the noise and everyone froze. Archer turned a pale, ghostly white as he turned to see Hikaru Sulu standing behind him, imposing in a sharp suit and a fedora that cast a dark shadow over his face. For a moment it felt like everything was suspended, unmoving in their collective terror.

“Uh, nothing, Boss, we were just taking care of these two country boys trying to sell in your town.” Sulu stepped forward and cuffed Archer hard upside the head.

“Damn right, _my_ town.” Sulu cast a sparing look over at Scotty and Chekov, still transfixed with dread by the ditch. His gaze narrowed at them. “Are you that kid who works for Kirk over in Riverside?”

Chekov nodded feverishly “Yes! Yes! We heard you were buying liquor, we’ve got two hundred gallons in the truck!” He babbled frantically, his accent thickening with fear.

Sulu eyed them a moment longer, and motioned towards a building across the street.

“Step into my office, boys.”

~~

“I’m sorry for the mix up, boys, we’ve had a lot of people encroaching on my territory lately, and I can’t have that,” a sharp, elegantly dressed woman said to them, not looking up from counting a large stack of bills. Chekov and Scotty looked from themselves, to the woman behind the desk and finally to Sulu, in confusion. For a moment the woman paused as she caught the bewildered glances being thrown about the room. “Ignore Mr. Sulu, he’s merely a figurehead -“

“You sure know how to make a guy feel swell, Nyota.” Sulu said cheekily as he hung his fedora on the coat rack and draped himself dramatically across a settee in the corner.

“I’m the real brains of this operation. Nyota Uhura.” She extended her hand to them and they shook it in turn. “In this part of the County men don’t respond well to women wielding authority over them, so I have Sulu swan around and pretend like he really is the leader of a criminal organization.” She smiled wryly at Sulu who was frowning from the couch.

“Aye, if you don’t mind me asking, Miss, but, why exactly are you telling us this?” Scotty asked nervously. Uhura’s smile melted away and she was all seriousness again.

“Take is as a sign of good faith. I am genuinely sorry for Archer’s behaviour. I’ve been looking to doing business in Federation County, and Jim Kirk’s operation is the biggest in the _state_ , let alone just the _county_. I would like to strike a deal and I don’t want an unfortunate incident with one of my men to sour it.”

She paused briefly and Chekov was tempted to comment that he and his friend nearly getting shot and dumped in a ditch was more than just an _unfortunate incident_ , but he decided not to push his luck.

“Now, I heard about what happened to Mr. Kirk.” Uhura reached inside the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a slip of paper, scribbling an address on it hastily. “And I want him to know I send my sympathies and when he recovers, we would love to do business with him.” She folded the paper and held it out to Chekov along with the thick stack of bills.

“What’s this?” he asked, he took the paper in hand and stuffed the money in his pocket.

“The address of the men Harrison hired to slit Jim’s throat.” Chekov’s breath hitched with surprise.  Everyone had assumed that Jim’s near-death was merely a bar brawl that had gotten out of hand, but if Harrison had hired those men, it changed _everything_.

“It has been a pleasure doing business with you Mr.Chekov, I hope to do so again. The only question I ask of you is that you keep this -“ Uhura motioned to Sulu who was reading a book containing bright coloured diagrams of plants, “- a secret.”

“Certainly Ms. Uhura. I hope to be seeing you again.” He shoved the address in his breast pocket as he and Scotty walked back out into the street. The horizon had begun to lighten as dawn broke and Chekov knew that if he was going to get back to the filling station before Jim or Bones he would need to drive fast, he just hoped he could drive fast _enough_.

“Are you going to give it to ‘im?” Scotty asked as they got into the car and Chekov revved up the engine. He knew that giving Jim the address was a bad idea, he knew it in his bones, but he couldn’t just hide the information from him.

“Of course,” he said as he tried to summon the conviction he didn’t remotely feel.

 

~~

 

When Chekov pulled the Model T into the long driveway, he couldn’t help but swallow reflexively as he looked towards the filling station and saw Jim, home from the hospital, sitting with Bones and Spock on the porch. He had known it was unlikely they were going to make it back before everyone awoke, but he had hoped. This was not a confrontation he was prepared for. Chekov knew Jim would be mad, but he knew he couldn’t back down now - he had come so far, so he took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. He was glad that he had dropped Scotty off at his home first, he didn’t want his friend to get in any trouble.

  As he strode towards the station, Jim and Spock remained impassive, but Bones stood from his chair rapidly, his anger visibly simmering and coiling around him. Chekov ignored him and trudged up the stairs stopping in front of Jim and dumping out the small sack of money clutched in his small fist at his feet.

“Before you say anything Jim, that’s nearly three thousand dollars - it’s twice what you get here in town, and Sulu wants to deal with us exclusively-“

“Well look at you,” Jim drawled, voice gravel rough from disuse. “Look real close Chekov.” Jim tugged his collar down to reveal a long line of scabbed over flesh, cinched together with thick, black stitches. “This is what you’ve got to look forward to.”

“Jim, Hikaru Sulu gave me the names of the men who cut your throat. He told me -“  Bones’ loud snort cut him off abruptly. Chekov looked up at him and scowled darkly. “Harrison hired those men who cut your throat Jim.” He reached in his pocket and held out the crumpled slip of paper Uhura had given him, thankful he had remembered to lie. Jim’s wrath would be bad enough; he did not need the wrath of a Mafia Queen down upon him as well.

“He gave me their address.” When Jim just stared at him, not reaching out for the paper, Chekov simply put it in his lap and stalked inside.

Jim grabbed the piece of paper from his lap, hands shaking slightly, and looked down at it then meaningfully at Bones. Bones nodded tightly and muttered to himself as he followed Chekov inside, “I need a drink.”

Jim absently rubbed at his throat, still pink and tender.

“What will you do Jim?” Spock asked quietly, eyes lingering on the still healing wound. Jim sighed. He couldn’t tell Spock the truth, Spock was beautiful and smart and _innocent._ Jim already felt like a taint, poisoning the breath of life Spock was to him. Jim felt like he turned everyone around him into dark versions of themselves, unscrupulous criminals; Scotty had been a brilliant mechanic who was now building backwoods stills and Chekov had been a wide-eyed orphan with nowhere to go, and now he was dealing liquor to mobsters in the city. Jim carried that weight with him always, and it held him down like gravity - but seeing Spock, who was perfect and nice and a thousand other things Jim wanted for himself - seeing him become something dark and sinister would crush his bones and his heart to dust.

 “I don’t know,” he replied, folding the piece of paper and shoving it in his pocket. He could feel Spock watching him carefully now, quietly shattering him with his sincerity, concern and a swirl of so many other things in his eyes Jim had never seen someone look at him with. “I don’t know.”

~~

For most of the day Chekov had holed himself up in his room with the door barred, reading a battered copy of _Crime and Punishment_ , and thinking fondly of his homeland. When the longing ache in his gut became too much, and Bone’s shouting from downstairs became too loud, he climbed out his window, shimmied down the drain pipe and took off into the woods, hoping to find a good location to build his very own still.

Before he got far, Chekov cursed at himself and headed off towards town. The still was supposed to be a joint project; he and Scotty were supposed to be building it together. So, Chekov headed in the direction of Scotty’s home.

When Chekov finally arrived, the sun was already setting. He and Scotty would have to get a move on if they wanted to find a spot and start measuring before night fell. When Chekov rapped on the door, he could hear Scotty’s little terrier Keenser bark and yapp shrilly. The sound of Scotty’s grumbly voice could barely be heard over the dog, but Keenser quieted and the door swung open.

“Chekov! Jim didn’t skin you alive!” Scotty said jovially, clapping Chekov on the back. He winced,

“No, he did not.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I would like to find a spot to start building our still Mr.Scott. But we must hurry if we want to find a spot before nightfall.”

“Smashing! Do you have an area in mind?” Scotty asked, flinging open a small closet and pulling out his jacket and a dangerously long scarf.

“I was thinking deep in the forest, several kilometers at least.” Chekov watched avidly as Scotty wound the scarf around and around and around his neck until his nose and mouth were covered by the thick, knitted wool.

“How big were you thinking we should make the still?” Scotty asked, voice muffled by the scarf. Chekov pondered thoughtfully. He wanted to be innovative, he wanted to make something big that Jim couldn’t ignore. Something that would win him Jim’s respect.

“Four hundred gallons. And I think we should make three of them.” Chekov said, matter-of-factly, Scotty’s eyes widened comically in surprise.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to help you build not one-not two-but _three_ four hundred gallon stills deep in the woods?! Are you crazy? Did Jim hit you over the head and damage your brain or something?” Scotty motioned wildly “How many fingers and I holding up.”

“Nyet, I am not crazy! Mr.Scott I know we can do this! Think of how great it would be-we could even build them under the ground-we could build submarine stills!” Chekov crowed excitedly. Scotty gasped.

“You are positively _mad._ ” Had his mouth not been covered by his massive scarf, Chekov would have seen the maniacal grin spreading across Scotty’s face. “I like it! Let’s go! We’ll have to get a move on if we want to get good measurements before it gets dark!” Scotty quickly bolted back into his house, emerging with a stub of a pencil and a small battered notebook littered with half formed equations.

And with the Chekov and Scotty, followed by Keenser, took off into the woods in search of a space to begin work on their still.

 

~~

Pleased with their progress Chekov walked Scotty and his dog back to the small shack and bid him goodnight. Chekov felt the blush of excitement as he began the long walk to the station. He and Scotty had found a reasonably good spot to build their stills. It would take some work, but Chekov was sure they could do it. It had been a long time since he had been able to argue physics and mathematics and engineering with someone. Scotty was as smart as Chekov, possibly smarter when it came to building impressive things and Chekov was excited to start building their new project. He was wary but optimistic that this-building these giant stills, bigger than anyone had ever seen before-would finally gain the recognition Chekov so craved from Jim.

Chekov wasn’t entirely sure why Jim’s approval meant so much to him. Perhaps it was because he was so alone here, such a foreigner. His family, back home starving in Russia had sent him here for a better life. But it had been arguably just as bad here. He had been alone and scared, picked on and roughed up by the other boys in the neighborhood. He had felt so isolated that when Jim swooped in and helped him that day in that alley, he had latched on so tightly to him.

Chekov knew why Jim was trying to protect him and keep him out, but he didn’t want out. He already felt held at arm’s length and isolated being so far from his home. He didn’t want to feel like an outsider here in his new home. He would prove to Jim that he could cut it in the business.

 

~~

 

When Chekov finally entered the filling station later on that night, after finally arriving from his lengthy journey, he was instantly aware that Jim and Bones weren’t there. The lights were off, save for the one shining dimly above the table Spock was sitting at, a cup of tea at his elbow and a book open in his lap. Spock looked up from his book when Chekov spoke.

“Where’s Jim and Leonard?”

“Pavel…” Spock said, putting his book down, and Chekov felt the hot clench of anger in his gut - he was _not_ a child that needed constant sheltering and protecting. Before Spock could stop him, Chekov turned on his heel and bolted for his car, starting the engine with a roar and speeding out of the driveway and down the road, deaf to Spock still calling his name from the porch.

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel and he took the winding corners faster than was strictly advisable as he fumed about being left behind like and inconvenience - like an _amateur._ He was tough like Jim and Leonard, not as tall or broadly muscled, but he was still tough.

“Scrappy,” Scotty had told him once. “You’re a scrappy lad.”

He would show them he was one of them.

When Chekov finally pulled the car into the small clearing in front of the rickety shack, alongside Jim’s battered work truck, he finally felt the first waves of apprehension. What would he find in that shack? What would they expect him to do?

‘ _Are we going to kill them_?’ Chekov thought to himself and he felt the choke of fear in his throat. ‘ _Can I really kill those men_?’ He took a deep breath and got out of the car. _‘I can. I have to._ ’

As he walked through the clearing, getting closer and closer to the shack, he began to hear screams, cracks and grunts; he stalled and looked back to his car. Instead of turning and fleeing, he swallowed and kept on going until he climbed the small set of half rotted stairs and stood in front of the door for a moment hesitating.

Like a moment out of an old ghost story, the door creaked open suddenly and Chekov was instantly hit with the overwhelming thick coopery smell of blood and Bones standing there looking at him darkly.

“What are you doin’ here kid?” he asked gruffly, as a shrill scream cracked through the night, tapering off into a muffled gurgling sound. Chekov felt his stomach turn.

“I-“ He stopped abruptly when the door opened a bit more and he caught sight of Jim, back turned to him, arms covered in blood up to his elbows, straight razor hanging open in his left hand.  Jim turned slightly then, and locked eyes with him, his face and neck were awash with stripes and smears of blood.

Chekov barely noticed Bones close the door in his face over the ringing in his ears and the churning in his stomach. He fumbled down the steps, staggering a few feet before falling to his knees and throwing up violently into the grass. As the last vestiges of delusion slipped away, Chekov thought,

‘ _Perhaps I am not one of them at all.’_

~~

Spock sat in the near dark of the station, trying to calm and order his thoughts while he waited for Jim to return. He tried to supress the thick, roiling unease in the pit of his stomach. He had known what Jim and Leonard had sent off to do. 

He had known, and he had not stopped them.

For a brief moment, Spock was afraid the guilt of it would swallow him alive and consume him but he found that it wasn’t guilt he felt. It was protectiveness. He wanted to protect Jim from this; Jim who was like a thick slab of rock, worn down and weathered by time and age, never sheltered from the elements. Jim spent so much time protecting and worrying about everyone in his charge.

But there was no one protecting Jim from the storms outside raging. Spock was not naïve, he knew Jim wasn’t fragile. He was not young and boyish like Pavel, but there were times when he laughed or grinned when Spock got hints of what he must have been like as a young fragile boy. And Spock desperately wanted to protect those parts of him; he didn’t want to see them scraped away by the harsh unrelenting ebb of time.

Jim had spent his life drifting in an ocean of violence, and Spock didn’t want to see this brilliant young man lost in a sea of bloodshed.

The sudden wash of emotions was troubling. Growing up on Vulcan and learning the Vulcan way had granted Spock stillness and serenity of the mind, and now being surrounded by humans; lustful, violent, boisterous humans, stirred something inside of him.

His mind was rarely quiet or serene these days, but Spock found he didn’t mind the stirring in his mind, or the bustling life surrounding him. While he would never admit it he liked Chekov’s boyish enthusiasm and even the boisterous personality of Leonard. He and Bones rarely saw eye to eye on anything, Bones often resorting to being a sullen curmudgeon whenever he had to interact with Spock.

It was refreshing, such liveliness of the human lives around him. It was fascinating and unstoppable.

But, when Spock heard the sound of an engine and the crunch of tires over the gravel driveway, his mind went calm and his breathing stilled.

_Jim._

He saw the brief flash of head lights and heard the engine cut out as Jim’s truck pulled in to the station. The truck door opened and slammed shut, and the heavy footfalls paused as they neared the door; as if Jim was standing on the other side, debating on whether or not to run from this- _from Spock_.

The door opened and Spock felt the breath rush out of him. Even as he felt a dark chill settle over him and deep into his bones as he saw Jim. Covered in thick, drying blood and looking ragged and Spock felt something settle in his chest. Jim wasn’t running from him, wasn’t hiding. He was standing there, in the doorway, dripping a stranger’s blood onto the floorboards and he was letting Spock see all the deep dark parts of him he tried to hide away. Spock stood and walked tentatively towards Jim, who raised a blood-stained hand towards him.

“Don’t. Don’t, you’ll get blood on you,” he rasped quietly. Spock didn’t stop; he just kept slowly walking towards Jim, until Jim’s hand was hovering in front of him.

All was silent save the huffed breaths and the drip of blood onto the floor.

Spock took one final step, Jim’s hand coming to rest at the centre of his broad chest. “Jim, let me help you.”

Jim recoiled, like a man coming out of a trance. His hand ripped away, leaving a bloody handprint on his crisp white shirt and Jim’s eyes snapped down to the bloody smear. He made a deep, broken sound as he bolted from the station. Spock followed him outside but Jim was already in the truck, the engine roaring to life and tearing off into the early dawn light.

He watched as the truck disappeared into the trees, and Spock felt the crushing desolation of calling out for Jim and being met with only deafening silence.

He stood on the porch, surrounded by the dark emptiness for a long while, before he returned inside. As Spock climbed the stairs and passed Jim’s empty room, he hovered at the threshold wondering if the day would ever come when he would be able to step inside.

~~

That morning, half way across town John Harrison sat at the small kitchen table in his sparse hotel room staring darkly at the morning paper. The main headline read; **_Brutal attack leaves two men in critical condition_**. As he read more and more of the article, he felt his blood boil and his grip tightened fiercely on the newspaper, nearly ripping it in two.

It had been bad enough that back country hickhad _lived_ , but now he was _retaliating_. Clearly he had not learned his lesson. 

Well, he would pay for his insolence with the blood of his loved ones; John would make sure of it.

~~

It was two days before Jim returned to the filling station, clean of bloodstains but reeking of liquor. Spock was tempted to follow Jim upstairs and confront him - _make him listen_ \- but Jim looked so weary, in the set of his shoulders and the deep bags under his eyes. So Spock let him go, and turned to help the lone patron sitting at the bar, sipping his coffee.

After the lone man finished his meal and left the station, Spock pulled out an old, battered novel from under the bar and sat at a table to read, keeping a keen ear open for sounds of movement from Jim’s room. Every so often Spock would pause and set down his novel and just hover outside of Jim’s door waiting for something, anything. But nothing happened; there was no sound or word uttered, so Spock would return to his novel. Soon he stopped hovering and just sat and read. For a long while Spock read his book undisturbed, but after a while Chekov came and asked for Jim.

“Is Jim back yet?”

“Jim is resting.” Spock said firmly, not looking up from his book. Chekov frowned and looked at Spock quizzically.

“Alright, well when he’s done resting tell him I’m going to go check on the stills.” Spock nodded at him; Chekov turned and left the station. It was unusual for Jim to disappear for days on end and Spock was rarely so stoic these days. As Chekov started his little roadster he cast a look back at the station.

‘ _Did something happen between them_?’ He thought to himself, and then shrugged. ‘ _If something did happen between them, then it’s for them to figure out_.’ And with that, he pulled out of the station and tore down the road, heading towards the stills hidden in the countryside.

As he got closer he thought gleefully of the enormous stills he and Scotty were going to build. They would be the envy of every bootlegger in the County. As Chekov took the now familiar twists and turns he ran calculations in his head absently. He tried to figure out how long they would take to build, how many man hours, how much money, and how much more liquor they could produce in the long term.

Chekov was sure Nyota would be thrilled when they would be able to increase the amount of liquor they could sell her. Chekov’s equations were momentarily derailed by fond thoughts of Nyota. She had been pretty; dark skin, a dark smart red dress and a smile that could light up Broadway. Chekov felt himself flush and quickly returned to thoughts of his stills.

When he had finally navigated the heavy underbrush and reached the still, Chekov somewhat regretted that Jim had decided to build them so deep in the woods. Perhaps he should rethink building the new stills so deep in the forest. He had several scratches from thorn bushes on his face and his shirt was ripped from where it had snagged on a tree branch. 

“At least no one would be able to find it,” Chekov mumbled to himself.

“Oh, on the contrary,” a deep voice said from behind him. Chekov turned sharply, tumbling to the ground when he tripped over a tree root. From his prone position in the dirt, Chekov stared bewilderedly up at Deputy John Harrison, who loomed over him menacingly.

“How - how did you -“ Chekov sputtered, and John grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“Do you think it was hard to follow you here? Do you think me an inept buffoon?” John roared as his fist collided harshly with Chekov’s face.

“You think you could hide from me? You are but a boy!” Harrison sneered down at him as she punched him again. He heard the sickening ‘ _crack_ ’ of his nose breaking and felt the pain radiate through him and blood cascade down his face. Blow after blow rained down upon him, he felt his lip split when a fist landed on his mouth. He nearly went blind with the pain of his cheekbone cracking when he was laid down with a punch beneath the eye. He scrambled across the ground, crying and bleeding, trying to get away from John.

“I thought Jim’s little gang were supposed to be tough outlaws, not whimpering, snivelling _children,”_ John spat, as he looked down at Chekov in disgust, bleeding, crying in the dirt.

“Jim, Jim’s gonna get you -“ Chekov slurred, between broken sobs.

 “Is that so? Well, that’s not going to help you now, is it?” John kicked him savagely in the ribs and Chekov howled in pain. “You tell him I am coming for them, for _all of them_. _Everyone_ he loves. I will walk over their cold corpses and bring him to his _knees_.”

“Please, please -“ Chekov wrapped his arms tightly around himself, and John landed one final kick to his temple and Chekov dropped into unconsciousness. 

John looked down at his blood-soaked white gloves in disgust. Carefully, trying to make sure he avoided getting any more blood on himself, he tugged off his gloves and tossed them onto the unconscious boy at his feet. Giving Chekov one last disdainful look, John turned and left the forest.

Several hours later, when the forest had gone cold and dark, Chekov awoke bloody and sore. Everything hurt, a sharp throbbing ache, and when he tried to stand he nearly lost consciousness again from the crushing pain in his ribs. It took him a long time to stumble through the woods, the night settling darker and darker around him, but eventually the trees thinned and he saw his car. He nearly sobbed with relief at the sight of it, and collapsed in the driver’s seat when he finally pulled himself inside.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and he wanted no more than to lay down and just sleep there in his car, but he knew he had to get back into town. With shaky fingers he reached for the keys _, still in the ignition thank god_ , and turned it on. He carefully resettled himself in the seat, gritting his teeth at the pain in his side, and started to drive slowly back to town.

It was a difficult task; the vision in his right eye was swimming. He struggled to keep the car straight on the road when overwhelming waves of nausea and dizziness overtook him, but eventually the filling station was in sight. As he pulled into the long driveway, he nearly sobbed in relief, cut the engine and promptly threw the car door open and vomited violently into the dirt. With his last ounce of strength, Chekov laid down across the bench seat, groaning at the sharp pain in his side, and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

As dawn broke the next morning, Chekov woke still covered in blood, tears and some remnants of his own puke. He felt like a throbbing mass of pain but forced himself up and out of the car, stumbling towards the garden hose. When he turned it on, the water was ice-cold and it hurt his hands as he washed the dirt and blood from them. He washed his face quickly, feeling nauseous again when the pain in his nose and cheekbone spiked sharply at the attention. When the last of the stars had faded from his vision, he turned off the hose and looked towards the station.

He was supposed to be helping Spock today, the weekly shipment of goods had no doubt come this morning and Chekov had promised to lend a hand. Despite the pain coursing through him, Chekov shuffled towards the station and headed inside to help Spock who was already wiping down the bar. When he entered, Spock looked up and caught sight of him, immediately stilling.

“Pavel, what happened to you?” Spock asked, stepping out from behind the bar and coming towards him. Chekov looked away.

“Nothing,” he muttered, trying to step around Spock and hissing slightly when his ribs throbbed.

“Clearly you are hurt,” Spock stated blandly, stepping in front of him, not letting him slip past.

“It is nothing - I am fine -“ He hissed angrily at Spock, and was cut off when Jim descended the stairs and stopped, taking in the scene in front of him. Chekov stilled and remembered Harrison’s words, his blood going cold.

“What’s going on here?” Jim asked shortly, looking directly at Chekov.

“Nothing, Jim,” he said quietly. Jim’s gaze narrowed and he walked towards them. Spock watched as Jim grew closer, a tightly wound tension in his posture and Spock felt the need to step between Jim and Chekov.

“Alright. You say you want in on this racket, and you show up here looking like you went ten rounds with an angry Gorn, so I ask you - what do you intend to do now?” Jim asked his voice low and his gaze never shifting from Chekov.

“What? I don’t understand? What do I intend to do?” Chekov asked, confused.

“Yeah, what do you intend to do? Do you expect someone else to handle it? Me? Bones? ” Jim asked stepping around Spock to get in close to Chekov.

“Jim, Chekov is hurt. Perhaps this can wait?” Spock asked tightly and set a hand on Jim’s shoulder. Jim ignored him.

“You’re the one swanning around the place like you’re Al Capone. I’m not going to fight your battles for you.” Chekov didn’t say anything, and looked away from Jim. “Letting you in was mistake.”

“No! Jim I-“ Chekov sputtered, Jim silenced him with a look.

“If you want to survive in the business Chekov, you need to control the fear. Without the fear, we’re all as good as dead.”

“I - I’m not like you or Leonard.” Chekov said quietly, shrinking in on himself.

“It isn’t the violence that sets men apart Chekov.” Jim put his hand on Chekov’s shoulder. “It’s the distance we’re willing to go. Do you understand?” Jim asked gruffly. Chekov shook his head minutely.

“Harrison said he’s coming for you Jim, for everyone you love.” Chekov tried hard to bite down the tears welling in his eyes and Jim removed his hand.

“I’ll bet he did.” Jim turned from them then and left the filling station, leaving Chekov and Spock alone in the heavy silence.

 

~~

The coming weeks were fraught with tension. While a cold, icy silence settled between Chekov and Jim, the world around them seemed to roil and churn in unease. There were whispers around the community that the government was going to be cracking down on the illegal trade of liquor and a lot of the surviving bootleggers in the areas made deals with the District Attorney. But while the small timers quickly complied with the new order of things and paid their dues, the biggest operation in the County still refused to cow to pressure. Jim and Bones still refused to give in and continued to churn out more liquor than ever. It seemed as if they would be the last men standing.

It seemed that District Attorney Marcus wasn’t pleased with the bold resistance in the County and was in favour of a more aggressive approach to taking down the last few rebels. Both the District Attorney and Special Deputy Harrison were looking to send a message.

That much was clear when, one morning as dawn broke and Jim was preparing to leave the station and get started on the morning chores, as he stepped on the porch and made a grisly discovery.

Propped up against a supporting post, sat a man heavy and black with tar and feathers with a sign reading ‘ _Bootlegger_ ’ slung around his neck. Jim made his way quickly to the man, crouching down on a knee and trying to find a pulse. When he got a good close look at the man, he found he knew him. Christopher Pike had once been a Deputy serving with Sheriff Komack, but his career came to an end when he was shot and crippled during a bank robbery.

Chris had been hit hard by the Depression, just like everyone else and had resorted to making illegal liquor and selling it to sustain himself like most of the community. Jim remembered the old man fondly. There were many times when Chris had broken up a fight between Jim and another boy, or had caught Jim in any manner of trouble and instead of throwing him in jail like most officers would do, Chris would look at him with the stern look of disappointment a father would have. He had been good to Jim and had tried to persuade him to put his misspent talents to a better use, to be better than the life he was living. It never stuck for Jim, but he had always appreciated Chris’s attempts.

To see Chris here now, tarred, feathered and slumped dead on his porch as a grim reminder of Harrison’s warning, filled Jim with rage. He felt the noose tightening and as anger swelled in his gut he felt something akin to panic begin to course through him.

Harrison wouldn’t stop until everyone Jim knew was lying dead at his feet.

He cast a long look back over his shoulder at the filling station. He could see Spock and Chekov through the window, freshly woken. Spock was standing at the small stove behind the bar, cracking some eggs into skillet for breakfast. Chekov was half slumped against the bar, still bleary eyed from sleep. He could still see the faint greenish-yellow of healing bruises around his eye and Jim’s gut twisted sharply. He was going to finish this, once and for all.

A car door slammed not far off and the sound of boots crunching over gravel approached. Jim tensed, unarmed but prepared to stand and defend the last of his kin.

He visibly relaxed when Bones came around the corner. His eyes widened when he caught sight of Jim crouched next to Chris’s limp body.

“Shit Jim, what’s going on?” Bones cursed, quickly striding over to Jim.

“Chris Pike’s dead. It’s Harrison, Bones. I’ve got to stop him.” Jim stood and looked hard at his friend. Jim and Bones had rarely spoken since Jim’s throat had been cut, but in that time Bones looked like he had aged ten years; as if he was carrying the weight of his guilt on the lines of his face.

It was like the ground water of Jim’s life had been poisoned, everything once beautiful and green now wilting and sickly, slowly dying off. Bones must have seen something in Jim’s expression because he grabbed Jim roughly then.

“Don’t do it Jim, you’re going to get yourself killed.” Jim shoved him back and stormed inside.

Chekov and Spock startled when the door banged open and Jim strode inside, heading for the stairs.

“Jim? Is everything all right?” Spock asked, setting the skillet aside and turning the burner off before following after Jim.

“No, everything’s not all right. He’s gonna go off and get himself killed the damned fool.” Bones hollered from the porch, where he stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying not to look at Pike’s mangled body. Spock paid Bones no attention and followed Jim upstairs where Jim was grabbing a double-barrelled shotgun and a box of ammo from underneath his bed.

“Jim, what is going on?” Spock asked, a little more sharply this time as Jim.

“I’m going after Harrison; I’m going to end this.” He grunted as he quickly swept the room, looking for his revolver.

“Jim, you cannot do this. There must be another way.” Spock felt the odd, unfamiliar hot clench of fear in his heart. Jim ignored him, and grabbed his gun, tucking it in to the back of his trousers and reaching for his shot gun and ammo again.

“Jim, please-“

“Spock, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I only know what I can do,” Jim said gruffly as he loaded his shotgun, trying desperately to concentrate on the task ahead of him and not the man standing in front of him. It would be easier this way, if he didn’t look at Spock.

“Jim, please, _do not do this_.” The floorboards creaked as Spock took a tentative step forward as Jim snapped the barrel and the stock together with finality.

“I have to, Spock. “ Jim stood, finally looked at Spock, and instantly regretted it. His beautiful face was cracked with emotion, eyes wide with fear and cheeks flushed green with anger.

“What will it take for this to end Jim? Do I have to again find you laying in a pool of your own blood, with your throat slit from ear to ear? I will not do that again, I _cannot_ do that again.” Spock looked away from Jim suddenly, jaw tight, eyes fluttering closed.

“Wait…you found me that night?” Spock turned back to him, expression shuttered.

“Yes. How else would you have gotten to the hospital?” Spock asked blandly.

“…I thought I walked.” Jim said lamely. Spock merely looked at him unimpressed, bordering on exasperated. “But, you had already left for the night - you, you came back. Why?”

Spock looked away from Jim again, the silence thick between them.

“It is of no importance now.”

“Spock, if you were here that night - Spock, did they hurt you?” Jim asked, voice steady as blood roared in his ears. Spock looked him dead in the eye now, but all expression was gone from his face, he was completely blank.

“No.” Jim stared dumbly at Spock for a long moment, searching for something, _anything,_ but he saw _nothing_. He felt his blood boiling, surging through him, choking him and roaring within him like a rabid beast.

He took off like a shot, thundering from the room. He could hear Spock calling after him but he was down the stairs and out into the night before he could torture himself more with that deep blank _nothing_.

~~

As Jim tore out of the filling station and stalked toward the Model T sitting in the driveway, Chekov and Bones followed him outside, Chekov jogging to catch up with him.

“Jim! Jim what are we-“

“You are not going anywhere. You stay here with Spock. Bones, get in the truck, you’re driving.”

“But Jim I -“ Chekov started and he grabbed Jim’s arm, causing him to round on the boy.

“But _nothing_. Goddamit Chekov, for once just do what you’re told!” Jim growled as he ripped the door open and climbed into the truck. Bones looked over at Jim, surprised.

“Jim -“ Chekov said quietly, stopping in his tracks.

“Bones, get in the damned car and _drive_.” Jim growled.

“We’re not going off half-cocked, Jim!” Bones snapped back, glaring at him intensely as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“No, we’re _not_ going off half-cocked, we’re ending this once and for all.” Jim’s voice went cold. “He killed Chris, he tried to kill Chekov, and if I don’t stop him he’ll kill _everyone_. Now fucking _drive_.”

“Shit,” Bones muttered and started the truck. It peeled out of the driveway.

Had either of them been paying attention, they would have seen the hurt melt from Chekov’s eyes and turn into steely determination as he walked back into the filling station. He grabbed the rifle he had used to hunt deer, grabbed the keys to his little roadster and he headed outside, intent on following Jim and Bones. Before he could pull out of the station, he was stopped as he heard Spock calling his name from the porch. He stopped and looked up briefly.

“You cannot stop me from following them, Spock!” He called back as Spock walked towards the car.

“You misunderstand me, Pavel. I do not wish to stop you.” Chekov looked perplexed for a minute, and then he caught sight of the revolver neatly tucked into Spock’s fancy trousers. “I intend to go with you.”

 

~~

Jim didn’t know how he was going to find Harrison, but deep in his gut he knew he _would_ find him.

In the end it was dumb luck that lead them to Harrison.

They had been tearing down the main road, headed for town when they neared the main bridge they were stopped by a blockade. Several groups of men were bunch together, several of them were local law enforcement and some of them appeared to be men working for the District Attorney. Right in the middle of the men stood John Harrison arguing heatedly with Sheriff Komack. Jim knew he was outnumbered, and even if he got off a good shot and killed Harrison the only way Jim was walking out of there was in irons. But he knew that if he didn’t put an end to this now, Harrison would keep coming and coming until the lives of everyone Jim loved were laid to waste. With one last deep breath, Jim let the rage swell hot and bright in his gut and he tightened his grip on his gun.

“Jim don’t-“ Bones tried to grab at him and stop him, but Jim threw open the door and vaulted out of the car.

“Harrison!” Jim bellowed, stalking towards him. Everyone’s attention snapped towards him and the Sherriff stepped forward, hands outstretched to Jim.

“Hold it, Jim!”

“Harrison, you coward!” Jim shouted again, as he cocked his shotgun and lifted it. Before Jim could aim properly Harrison stepped forward and whipped out a pistol, firing off two shots in quick succession. One shot went wide and clipped the side of the car with a loud ‘clang’ and the other sunk deep into Jim’s side.

He faltered in his step and crumpled to the ground as pain tore through him. The ringing in his ears was so loud, he didn’t hear Bones call for him, or the loud crack of gunshots as he returned fire. Despite the flares of pain, Jim took a deep breath and shook his head roughly, trying to clear the stars from his vision. He could now hear the ambient noise around him; the Sheriff shouting for his men to stop firing, Bones howling like a wild man and, distantly, the sound of a car approaching. Jim pressed a shaking hand to his wound, blood gushing from between his fingers.

“Cease fire! _Stand down_!” The Sheriff was yelling and waving his arms, eventually halting the barrage of gunfire. 

“You spineless cowards!” Harrison roared, charging forward towards Jim.

The pain was excruciating, but he had to get up. Slowly, Jim got his feet under him and straightened, gritting his teeth so hard he could hear his jaw creak. With his free hand he reached behind him and grabbed his revolver, which was miraculously still tucked into his waistband. His grip on the gun was fumbling, and his hand shook when he raised it again, trying to aim for Harrison even as his vision swam in and out of focus. But before he could fire, Harrison raised his gun again and shot him in the right shoulder. Jim cried out and collapsed into the dirt, pain and blood loss overtaking him and dragging him down into unconsciousness.

~~

It hadn’t taken long for Spock and Chekov to catch up with Jim and Bones, but to Spock it felt like a lifetime. As they got closer to the barricade they heard the crackle of gunshots and Spock felt searing dread course through him as he took in the scene before him.

Jim was half sprawled on the ground, curled in on himself, blood staining his side heavily.

Spock tried desperately to order his thoughts and control the emotions at war within him. When he saw Jim stand shakily and draw only to be shot down again, sharp terror and fierce blood curdling vengeance roared in his head. A sharp twist of satisfaction ripped through him when another shot sounded and he saw Harrison shout and buckle as Bones got a good clean shot in his leg. Harrison roared with anger, but when the men surrounding him didn’t respond to his command he began to limp away, spitting mad.

As Spock closed in, he dropped into the dirt next to Jim, taking in the growing patches of blood on his side and shoulder.

“Spock…?” Jim rasped, blue eyes fluttering open to look at him. Spock realized he’d been saying Jim’s name over and over again as he held his face in his hands.

“Jim.” Spock said again, trying to contain his fear only to realize the fear he was feeling was not his own. He could feel it brushing against his mind; he could feel Jim’s mind- _he could feel Jim’s fear_. Spock reeled with shock; he had developed a bond with Jim.

When Jim had been in the hospital, and held Spock’s hand he had felt Jim’s fierce need to protect him. Spock had convinced himself, what he had felt then wasn’t a new bond flourishing; that it was merely the by-product of such an intimate touch and such a wave of intense emotion. But as he stared down at Jim bleeding and dying in the dirt, Spock couldn’t deny what had grown between them.

“Spock-” Jim’s breath hitched and he coughed wetly. Hurried footsteps broke Spock out of his revere and he quickly moved aside when Bones dropped down next to Jim.

“Chekov! There’s a bag of med supplies on the back seat of the truck-get it quick!” He barked. Chekov, who had been standing only several feet away, snapped into action and lunged for the truck.

“Will he make it?” Spock asked quietly as he stood.

“If I can stop the bleeding and we get him to a hospital, he’ll have a chance.” Bones replied, putting pressure of the wound in Jim’s side. Spock looked away, unable to look at Jim in pain, even if he felt it blossoming in the back of his mind. He looked down then, catching sight of his hands, stained a deep red from Jim’s blood and his mind flashed to the night Jim’s throat had been cut.

Spock had tried desperately to bury that memory, to safe guard his mind from being over taken by what he had witnessed. But it roared through him now, the sickening feeling of finding Jim lying in a pool of his own blood, throat agape. The air so thick with the scent of blood, Spock had felt like he was breathing it in; breathing in the thick stench of death. He felt his rage swell and a deep, ancient part of him called to him. Spock was barely aware he was running, until he breezed past the stunned guards who cringed and pulled away from him as he tore after John Harrison.

Not far over the bridge Harrison was limping trying to leave the grisly scene behind him. His pulse was a thunderous roar in his ears; it was only when Harrison jerked around to look at him did Spock realize it wasn’t his pulse but his voice. It was a deep animalistic roar that tore from him as he bore down on Harrison.

Even with a wounded leg Harrison fought back viciously. He matched Spock blow for blow, fists cracking and savaging flesh. While Spock was undoubtedly stronger than Harrison, he’d never had an occasion to fight so his blows were sloppy and his weak spots were left unguarded. Harrison lashed out and caught Spock in his side where, blow his ribs, sat his Vulcan heart. Spock cried out and surged forward, grappling with Harrison fiercely.

For a moment they were deadlocked, struggling against each other like a pair of feral dogs. But Spock whirled away and broke Harrison’s grasp on him and seeing an opening reach for his neck. A brief moment of hesitation flickered through his mind, but as he set his hand on Harrison Spock felt him. He felt the sick hatred and knew this man meant to kill Jim. A deep instinctual part of him rose up and the need to protect the bond overtook him.

With a sick, echoing snap, the battle ended. Harrison dropped to the ground, limp as a discarded rag doll. Spock breathed raggedly, and surveyed what he’d done. He’d expected to be awash with feelings of remorse and guilt, but as he stood looking down upon a man whom he’d just killed, all he felt was relief.

He turned away then, leaving Harrison to rot as he headed back to where Jim had fallen. But now, there was only a bloody patch of dirt; Leonard had gone a presumably taken Jim to the nearest hospital. Chekov still stood near the spot, looking lost as he stared down at it. The Sheriff’s men looked warily at him, then back at Harrison. None of them said anything as they parted and let him pass.

The bond was quiet now. Spock reached out to it but he only found silence there. He wasn’t sure what it meant, he had never forged a bond like this before. As he neared Chekov, his face passive and blank, no longer contorted in dark rage.

“Leonard took Jim to the hospital.” Chekov said to Spock when he came to stand beside him.

“Then we should go to him.” Spock walked towards Chekov’s car then, stopping when he heard Chekov speak again.

“Is it over, is he dead?” It was quiet, barely above a whisper but Spock heard it.

“Yes, it is over.”

 

~~

This time, when Jim found himself in a wash of white, he knew this was not heaven.

He was in far, far too much pain to be in the Garden of Eden. He groaned softly and cracked open his eyes. Bones stood by his side, a deep frown on his face as he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, you were barely dead.” He seemed to lighten then, his frown morphing into a tired, worried smile. Jim huffed out a laugh and winced when his side throbbed.

“Be careful. Don’t go running around and exerting yourself, you’ll rip your stitches and I sure as shit ain’t sewing you up again.” Jim huffed again and this time tried to flex the fingers in his right hand, pain lancing up his arm suspended in the sling. “You know, people recovering from grievous injuries usually give them time to _heal_ before they start testing out their strength.” Bones grumbled angrily and stalked off in search of a nurse.

Jim looked over then, and was hit by a flash of déjà vu as Spock stood tentatively at the foot of his bed. Jim took his visage in; there were mottled dark green bruises under his eye and around his jaw. There was a small gash that slashed through one upswept brow that was sutured closed with two small, neat stitches.

Seeing that beautiful pale face slashed and marked with green chilled Jim deep down to his core, and he felt his stomach roll unpleasantly. He was awash with guilt and fear, his vision swimming for a moment before he felt a wave of calm break over him and Spock came to sit next to him on the bed.

“Calm your mind Jim, it is all right. You are safe now.” Spock said quietly, reaching over and grabbing Jim’s free hand and holding it gently.

“Spock, what’s going on?” The feeling felt foreign to Jim, it felt like the calmness wasn’t coming from inside him-but it _was_.

“Jim, do you know much about Vulcan culture?” Spock asked softly, lightly strokingJim’s fingers with his own.

“I know a little, but not much.” Jim relished in the serenity washing over him, and drifted in it.

“Vulcan’s are touch telepaths; we can feel the emotions of others by touching them. Our minds are…different than humans.”

“Different?”

“Most humans are psi-null meaning their minds generally cannot form a psychic link to another, while Vulcan minds are meant to be linked to more than one consciousness. This is known as forming a psychic bond or _bonding_ as it is also known.”

“Vulcans form a bond with each other’s minds?” Jim frowned slightly, imagining what it would be like to have a link to someone else’s mind. He felt his heart skip slightly when he saw Spock’s lips tick up in amusement briefly.

“Yes, but bonds are sacred. Special. Vulcans only develop two kinds of bonds; familial bonds and romantic mating bonds.”

“So, you only develop special mind links between your family and your wife?”

“Or Husband.”

“Oh.” Jim said quietly. “Spock, why are you telling me this?” Spock was silent for a beat and the soothing strokes of his fingers over the back of Jim’s hand stilled.

“It seems we have developed a bond, Jim.” Jim froze, a stunned silence came over him and he sat there in disbelief for a long moment before he spoke again.

“We’ve developed a bond.” He said dumbly.

“Yes.”

“You can read my mind?” Jim felt weary, a slight trill of nervousness struck him and he instantly tried to quell it, afraid Spock would know,

“I can only read your emotions, as you can read mine, but reading your thoughts requires concentration and I would not do so without your permission. I can teach you how to strengthen your mental shield if you would like.”

“Maybe. I guess. I don’t know Spock.” Jim felt a little lost suddenly, and overwhelmed with what the bond _meant_. And suddenly is struck him. “You said there were two kinds of bonds.”

“I did.” Spock nodded as he folded his hands in his lap.

“Is this a family bond Spock?” Spock looked away again.

“A family bond is only created between blood relatives.” Spock replied cryptically, still not looking at Jim. It was clear that Spock wasn’t going to be direct now, so Jim would have to be.

“Spock. Is this a romantic bond?” Jim asked him softly, trying to reach for Spock with his good arm. Spock turned and looked at him then, first at his outstretched hand then right in the eye. Jim didn’t feel anything over the bond then, all the felt was his heart hammering in his chest and desperate longing that Spock would simply reach out and take his hand. Whatever Spock saw in his eyes or felt over the bond, must have been convincing because he reached out and held Jim’s hand in his own.

“Yes Jim.” He said as he laced their fingers together.

~~

Federation County was in a frenzy after the shooting at the bridge, the news of the shoot-out spread and so did news of Commonwealth Attorney Marcus’s corrupt dealings. It wasn’t long before there was a federal investigation and trial that ended with Marcus going to jail on charges of corruption and Jim, Chekov and Bones being hailed as heroes of the county for standing up to the unjust lawmen.

Jim had never really pondered what it meant to be a hero; he had never really been one. He had always been the misfit or the troublemaker or one of the bad guys, but now the papers were saying he was some kind of hero. He didn’t really understand it. He was still the same man he had been before John Harrison and Marcus had shown up; he still had brass knuckles tucked into his back pocket and he still planned to use them if necessary. But now, he wasn’t just some poor punk kid or some bloodthirsty gangster, he was now a bonafide hero according to the papers and it baffled him. But, as with most matters of public opinion about him, Jim ignored it and went about life as it had been before…with a few notable exceptions.

After he was shot at the bridge, Jim spent two weeks in the hospital recuperating from his injuries. Then after that, he walked out of there and married Spock. Neither of them told anyone about the marriage or the bond. It was years before anyone found out, but they were like that; Jim and Spock. Always quiet, few words passing between them but as strong together has they ever had been apart.

One night after Prohibition had ended; Jim, Bones and Chekov sat out on the porch of the filling station passing an old jar of moonshine between them. Johanna, Bones’s daughter was twirling around and frowning at the older men just sitting around.

“C’mon Uncle Jimmy dance with me!” She whined, putting his tiny fists on her hips.

“It’s time for bed Johanna!” Jocelyn, Bone’s wife, called. With a huff, Johanna said goodnight and planted a kiss on the cheek of each one of them; these men who once thought themselves so hardened by time but were now soft with the love of the domestic life.

 Once she had gone to bed and Jocelyn had also bid them a goodnight, Bones looked over at Jim mischievously, a small glint of his younger self in his smile.

“C’mon then Jim. C’mon, show us your dance.” He grinned over at Jim nudging him with a sharp elbow to the side.

“Yes! C’mon Uncle Jimmy! Dance for us!” Chekov crowed brightly. Jim looked over sullenly at them.

“No way, I’m not dancing for you two jackasses.” Jim groaned as he levered himself up from his chair. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

“Awww! C’mon Jim, stay and dance for us.” Bones called after him, a laugh bubbling up in his throat. Jim grunted and waved dismissively at him. Jim still heard his laughter bright and loud as he went inside. Jim paused and looked back over his shoulder for a beat, feeling his heart swell a little at the ease and lightness of everything now. There was no more shadow of violence and tension hanging over them anymore, no more jagged fear tainting their lives.

There had been a time when he hadn’t been sure they would ever find a life like this, hell-he hadn’t even hoped for a life like this. It had seemed like an impossible dream, and Jim didn’t indulge impossible things. He had made peace with the idea that he would forever live in that shroud, and that the people he loved would too. He looked at Bones, more weathered with age but softened, something in him sprawling out in a way he never had before. And Chekov, once filled with boyish notions of gangsterhood, still had the fever of youth around him, but there was awareness there now; the awareness of what a life like that cost you and the loved ones around you. There was a small twinge of guilt when Jim thought too long about what had put that awareness there, but when Chekov turned and looked at him then, Jim was reminded that now he was a better man for it.

He felt the weight of guilt gone, lifted from his shoulders as his climbed the stairs and walked into his room. He couldn’t help but feel his heart stutter for a moment when he looked over at Spock, stretched out languidly in sleep. There were times when Jim would just stand a look for a moment, take in all the planes of Spock’s body and face, stark and pale against the sheets. He wouldn’t say anything, intent on just looking and Spock would knowingly stir from sleep and look back at him, the bond loud and clear and beautiful in the heavy darkness. But not this time, he wouldn’t stand and wait and look this time. He smiled, shucked off his clothes and lifted the sheets, casually admiring the slim, pale nakedness of Spock in his bed. He slid in next to him, pressing himself flush against his side, reveling in every inch of skin pressed against skin. Jim settled next to Spock and drifted to sleep, feeling lighter than he had in years.

*END*

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of not being accused of plagiarism, I did pull several lines of dialogue directly from the movie Lawless. If you've seen the movie you already know which ones I used and if you haven't seen the movie, you should watch it. It's great.


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